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Robb Returns by The Dark Scribbler
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: K+, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Robb S., Theon G., Domeric B., Words: 627k+, Favs: 6k+, Follows: 6k+, Published: Jul 16, 2015 Updated: Sep 287,743Chapter 50
Jorah
He watched the child go and mentally shook his head. The Targaryen girl had just had some of her illusions shattered and he had been the person to do it. Well, it had to be done. The Gods alone knew what other rubbish her brother had poured into her head.
Motapis tilted his head at him. "Thank you for finding her." Leera concealed a slight scowl at being ignored and then stepped back as the Magister gestured at Jorah to step closer. "You said that you spoke to Krats. What did he say?"
Jorah thought deeply for a long moment. "He said something most odd. That they were going back to the North because they had heard a message. A call. From the North."
"What message? From whom?"
"Winterfell, or so Krats thought. As to how it was delivered – he said that he came awake in the middle of the night, with the words ringing though him."
"Words?"
"'The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed.'"
Motapis stared at him as if he was mad. "The Others? They return because of a legend?"
"They seem certain of it. I shall return to talk to them again. They plan some ceremony this evening." He paused, assessing his next words. "Coming after what I heard about the Dothraki…. Magister, something has changed in this world. The Company of the Rose feel a pull back to the North, a need to be there. And I also feel it. I have for many days now."
The Magister's stare changed slightly. It was still intent, but there was more considered thought behind it now. "Curious," he muttered after a long moment. "Word has come from Oldtown. The glass candles can be relit."
He heard a gasp from behind him and he turned to see that Leera had both hands over her mouth in shock. She noticed his look and then blushed a little and ducked her head in apology. Not that Motapis seemed to notice. Instead he seemed to be so deep in thought that nothing could possibly make him notice anything. And then he seemed to return from wherever his mind had taken him.
"This changes everything," he muttered. Then he paused. "If it's all true that is. The Grey Waste means the Five Forts. And then…" He cut himself off, nodded at Jorah and then turned and walked back into his mansion, calling over his shoulder: "I will send word to Varys!"
Jorah watched him go and then turned to Leera. "Feel like another walk down the hill?"
"A little exercise never did anyone any harm," she replied with a smile and then she linked arms with him and they walked back down the road.
"Where did you get the food?"
"I wanted to get something for supper. Good that I did."
"Aye." He frowned and then shook his head. "Her brother never told her. The swine."
"He is a Targaryen, Jorah. The Dragons always held themselves to be above all overs."
He remembered the aftermath of the Trident and then the Red Keep afterwards. The bodies being brought from the Black Cells. The tales of Aerys and his last days of insanity and barbarity, the burning alive of anyone who crossed him, the torture and the mindless cruelty. "We are well rid of them."
She peered at him worriedly. And then they passed down the road to the square. There they found that the crowd was now quieter and also organised into groups that formed a great circle, each group having a furled flag. There was a tension in the air now, something that he could almost taste. Leera tightened her grip a little on his arm but stood next to him.
"Your cousins wish you two to stand with them," said a voice to one side and he noticed that The Stone was standing to one side, leading a horse and holding a furled flag himself. Behind the horse stood a younger version of The Stone, along with a woman who looked like his wife and four other children of varying size. "When you are with them we shall begin."
Jorah looked around in some confusion, but then walked with Leera over to where the women that The Stone had pointed out to him were waiting. They seemed to be amused, irked and expectant all at the same time.
"Cousin," one of them – Lyra? – said. "Well met." Then she frowned. "We have much to talk about. You resemble our grandfather by the way."
She spoke with such an intensity and with a such a look of wry (and angry) humour that he was instantly reminded of Maege and all of a sudden he wanted to hug her and weep for what he had lost. However, she'd probably box his ears and tell him not to be a great dunderheaded fool, so he restrained himself and instead looked back to The Stone, who was walking with his horse and his family to the centre of the circle. There he took the furled flag from his son and grounded its spiked base next to his foot.
"We are the Company of the Rose!" The Stone cried in a loud voice. "With our kith and kin. We are the sons and daughters of those who did not bend the knee to the Dragons. We are those who remember the vow made by our ancestors. We remember. For many long years who have remained here in Essos, as was agreed."
This was interesting, Jorah thought. Agreed by whom?
"But now everything has changed. We have heard the Call. The call home. The call from Winterfell. The Others come. We all know it. We all feel it." The crowd rumbled in agreement and approval. "I know that we are bound by the Oath that our ancestors swore. But there is an older oath that we must obey, an older calling. We are of the North! We must always rally there when the call comes to fight the Long Night, to fight the oldest enemy of our people! How could we not? How could any man or woman of the North fail to rally against such a threat? Could I? No! Could you?"
"NO!" The crowd bellowed back and Jorah was startled to find that he had shouted too. Leera looked at him and then wiped the tears from his face with a quick finger and a fond smile.
"Then we must return home! Who will go with me? Who will heed the call? Which of the Houses who sent their exiles to the East will return?" He turned to face the various groups and then raised a hand to the one in front of him. "Will you?"
"House Bolton will!"
"House Cerwyn will!"
"House Glover will come!"
"House Karstak too!"
"And House Hornwood!"
"House Mormont will answer the call!" Alyse bellowed, leaving his ears ringing a bit and reminding him again of Maege.
"House Redstark will follow!" Jorah jerked his head at that. House Redstark? Where had they come from?
"And House Ryder!" And that shook him like nothing else. Where had they been hiding? There hadn't been a Ryder in the North since the arrival of the Targaryens, since… and then he started to wonder again about how this Company had been founded. Then he drew his attention back to the square. A few other houses had announced that they were going and then a tall man with three tall sons and two tall daughters stepped forwards.
"And House Umber! We too will answer the call!"
The Stone looked about the square and Jorah could see the shining tracks of tears on his face. "And my House too," he rumbled, before raising his voice again. "We name ourselves true again. House Stark returns home!" And then he unfurled the banner and shook it a little so that the wind could catch the cloth. The Direwolf caught the breeze and boomed and snapped.
As did the other banners as the men and women bearing them lifted them in the air. There was a moment of silence and then the cheering started. Someone slapped Jorah on the back and he smiled as he wiped the tears from his cheeks. Why was he crying? Why did he feel so home with a group of strangers, even if some of them were kin? Was it the fact that he felt what they all did?
When he was finally able to, he turned to see Leera looking at him with a smile of her own and also eyes filled with tears. "You are going back with them, aren't you?" Leera said in his ear.
He frowned and then nodded. "If I can get passage with them, yes."
"Jorah, it will be dangerous!"
"I have to go. I am drawn there, drawn home, like they are. I will risk it."
She peered at him, with large eyes. Then she nodded as if she had seen something in his face that made up her own mind. "Very well. I shall go with you, share your risk and face your fate with you." He opened his mouth to protest, but she laid a finger over his lips. "This is not something we will debate. I have decided it."
He looked at her for a long moment and then he pulled her to him and kissed her fiercely, hearing his cousins cheer him on with a number of rude comments. And he felt something that he had not sensed within him for some time.
Hope.
Arya
The brands guttered and flared as Father and the others approached the door. She had run to fetch Father as fast as her legs could take her, leaving Jon in the Crypt. When she returned – having run ahead of the others – Jon hadn't moved a muscle, still staring at the door.
Father stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the door, forcing the others behind him to slow a little. When he started walking again he could see that he must have summoned a lot of people after she'd burst into his solar and gabbled that he had to come to the Crypts at once as she and Jon had found a door that they had never seen before, with a direwolf carving.
She could see Robb behind Father, and Mother. Maester Luwin was there, and Domeric, the GreatJon too. And then bringing up the rear was Theon and a bright-eyed and inquisitive Bran.
They all came to a halt before the door and stared at it. "I see that you were right," Father said eventually, before smiling at them both wryly. "Well done."
"Arya, why were you down here?" Mother asked with more than a little curiosity combined with exasperation.
She rolled her eyes for a moment. 'Avoiding Septa Mordane' would be the wrong thing to say, even if it was accurate. 'Getting out of stupid embroidery' was another accurate answer. "I was looking for Jon," she said eventually. "I saw him come down here."
Everyone looked at Jon, who looked back at Father evenly. "Today is… is Aunt Lyanna's birthday, Father. I lit a candle in her name, in front of her statue."
Father closed his eyes for a long moment. "Aye," he said eventually in a thick and regretful voice. "I had forgot that." He opened his eyes and there was approval in them now. "You did right by your aunt. Good lad."
And then he shook himself a little and stepped closer to the door. "Now this is… interesting. I have never seen this here before. I wonder how long it has been open?"
Robb stepped forwards and joined their father as they examined. Then something seemed to strike him. "Father! The night of the direwolf – you vanished when you were possessed by our ancestor. When I saw you next you were coming up from the Crypts, from here. What if Edric Stark knew of this place and how to open the door?"
Father seemed to think about this for a moment and then nodded. "Ah, that might well be it." Then he reached out and pulled on the door. It didn't move. Frowning he handed his brand to Robb and pulled with both hands. It still didn't move.
"Oh in the name of the Old Gods, Ned, give over. Let me have a go." And the GreatJon stumped over, gave his brand to Arya with a smile and then braced himself and hauled on the door. Something groaned – either the GreatJon or the doorframe – and then there was a grating noise as the big man forced the door open. Once it was fully open he released it and then turned back to Father. "There you go Ned," he panted. "Needs a little oil though."
Father grinned at his old friend. And then he seemed to sober himself as he took back his brand from Robb, before stepping up to the doorway. And then he seemed to take a deep breath and stepped forwards into the dark room beyond.
As the others also followed him Arya squirmed with impatience, before finally squeezing in through the door at the same time as Bran, who protested vehemently. And then they both fell silent and still as they saw what was in front of them.
There were tombs lining the sides of the room. Pairs of tombs in fact. And statues too, also in pairs. Man and direwolf. Women too. Everyone stared around the dark, dusty room in some shock.
"By the Gods…" Theon said eventually. He was staring at one of the statues intently. Then he bent down and brushed the dust from a carving at the foot of the statue, before straightening and then stepping back in what looked like shock. "Lord Stark! This is… this is Edric Stark's tomb. He and his direwolf, Thorn. He died… he died a thousand years ago."
Father strode over and peered at the carvings. Then he looked around at the tombs and there was an odd look to his face. "Wargs," he said eventually. "The legends were true. The Starks were wargs."
"Aye father," Robb said quietly. Then he looked at Father. "But are we still wargs?"
Arya felt her eyes widen. Wargs? Men – and women! – who could step into the minds of animals! And direwolves too! She shifted from foot to foot quickly and then she looked around the room. Robb looked almost wistful. Jon looked thoughtful, as did Bran. The GreatJon looked stunned, whilst Domeric… looked almost happy? Odd. Luwin's face was a picture of concentration and Mother, well, she looked shocked and more than a little resigned. Also a little green for some reason.
She wondered why. And then she caught sight of a statue of a woman with a direwolf just to one side and darted over to it, rubbing on the inscription to read the name. "This one's Dacey Stark! And her direwolf Huntress!" She looked about the room in delight – and then she paused. "Father – why did they hide this place?"
By the look on Father's face he did not know. Yet.
Brynden
Anyone who had ever lived in the Riverlands or the Vale was well-acquainted with rain. But that didn't mean that he had to like it. Brynden looked up at the sky sourly and then pulled the hood of his oiled campaign cloak a little further down so that the rain would hopefully stop dripping on his nose and not for the first time blessed old Ser Dalbert, the man who had given it to him so many years ago. A seemingly trivial thing, but he had cared for it over the long years and it had kept him dry. He thought back to the War of the Ninepenny Kings for a moment and then snorted a little. Had it really been so long ago?
The rain eased a little and he looked at the road ahead. Where was he going? West. Why was he going Southwest? He didn't bloody know. He wondered how much of a mess his successor was making as the Knight of the Gate and shuddered a little. Hopefully Arryn had appointed someone competent.
Which brought the issue – again – of why he was going Southwest. He still didn't know.
The road wound through a wood and he watched the trees cautiously. There was the occasional problem with idiots with blunt swords who thought that they could rob people. His brother tended to make object lessons of them.
Then he paused a moment. Speak of the devil. There were two bodies on the side of the road ahead, both with crude weapons next to them, or what remained of them. The old swords looked as if something had shattered them and the men looked as if what had shattered their swords had been a far better and sharper sword. He nodded in satisfaction. Good, clean strokes.
The rain lifted as he passed through the far end of the little wood and he peered at the horizon. The great bulk of Harrenhall was off to his right and he winced a little as he looked at it. He disliked that place, there was indeed something cursed about it.
He rode on, glancing up at the sky and assessing the sun. It was going down and at some point he'd have to think about where to sleep. The last inn was far behind him and he didn't know where the next one was. This wasn't a big road, nor a busy one. He'd normally make do with sleeping under a tree wrapped in his cloak, but judging by the cloud with a curtain of rain beneath it on the horizon that might not be a good idea tonight.
An hour later he was sure that he needed shelter. It was going to be a wild and wet night by the flash of lightning ahead. Longshanks was a pretty stoic horse, but he didn't want him too spooked by the bad weather.
And then, as dusk started to fall, as well as a fine drizzle, he saw the great bulk of a crag to his right, and beneath that crag the light of what looked like a fire. He narrowed his eyes a little, remembering the bodies that lay far behind him and then shrugged a little. If they were willing to share the fire then he could bring food. If they were not, he could find another place. And if they eyed his possessions and then tried to rob him then he'd provide a messy object lesson.
As he approached the fire he dismounted and as he led Longshanks along he noticed a few things. The fire was in the mouth of what looked like a South-facing cave, one with enough of an overhang of rock over it that it was sheltered from the rain. And there was a figure there, standing behind the fire. A tall man, cloaked and hooded, but with one hand on the pommel of a longsword. He was peering at Brynden suspiciously.
He sighed and stopped, before raising his free hand. "Ho there! I saw your fire and with your leave would share it. 'Tis a foul enough night and I have food I can share. Bread and salt for a start."
The figure seemed to relax a hair at the mention of bread and salt and then nodded slowly. As Brynden approached he could see that the cave was a deep one and that there was a horse tethered at the far end, its nose in a nosebag.
"May I tether my horse at the back?" Brynden asked. The figure nodded again and he led Longshanks into the cave.
It was roomier than it first appeared and also drier. Someone had hammered spikes into the rock face at the back at some point and then attached metal rings to tether horses and he chose the one furthest away from the other horse. He unsaddled Longshanks and then pulled out a blanket and rubbed him down carefully, before hanging up the wet blanket over two of the rings on the wall. Then he pulled out the old familiar horse blanket, draped it over Longshanks, clinched it just tight enough, and then watered and fed him. And all the time he could feel the eyes of the other man on his back.
Finally finished he shouldered his saddlebags and then strode over to the fire, where he sat to one side of his suspicious fellow traveller. Reaching into one of his bags he pulled out a piece of clean cloth which was wrapped around the fresh bread that he'd bought that morning from the inn he'd stayed at. He pulled a piece off it, sprinkled some salt onto it from a little pouch that he always carried, broke the bread in half again and then handed it over to the other man. "Bread and salt," he said, before eating it.
"Bread and salt," said the other man and then ate his piece. There was something odd about his voice. The accent hinted at the Stormlands and the voice seemed growly, but as if it was being projected lower than was usual. "Thank you." And then the other man turned to look at the fire. Brynden nodded slightly and then dug into his bag again, before finally pulling out a wrapped pack of cold but cooked sausages. He then pulled out his old campaign skewer, with its wooden handle, fastened a pair of sausages on the tines and then held the skewer just above the nearest flames.
The other figure watched in silence and then dug into the bag next to him and pulled out a small stone jar, which he opened and placed to one side. Brynden looked into it. Mustard. He nodded. "A trade then? A sausage for some mustard?"
The other man nodded and then sniffed as the smell of hot sausage started to grow. Brynden watched them critically and then pulled back the skewer before they had a chance to burn. The other man nodded and then teased one of them off with a small knife that he had pulled from the bag.
A little mustard was applied from the jar and then Brynden bit into his. Not bad. His flask contained some watered wine and he took a pull on it before placing another two sausages on the skewer and then putting the rest away. They'd last until tomorrow. Then he warmed the sausages whilst thinking about the other man.
Whoever he was he was not keen on showing his face. The cloak was good quality, the gloves too. From what he could see of the sword it too was well made. And the gelding back there was fit, well-cared for and might have had a splash of Dornish blood in it. But whoever he was he seemed keen to hide his face. Who was he?
The other two sausages were eaten and then he replaced everything in his bag. Thunder rumbled in the distance and he looked out at the night. "I'm glad I'm not out there tonight."
There was a grunt in answer. There was also a whinny from the back of the cave and he sighed. If the storm got any closer then he'd have to see to Longshanks. That horse got skittish when it thundered too much and would need soothing.
He looked back at the fire and then thought. The question of where in the name of the Gods he was going was nagging at him again. Was this all a fool's folly on his part? He had given up being Knight of the Gate – and for what? A fancy, a restlessness he could not explain, a need to be somewhere than he was right now.
The thunder growled again, louder and he sighed and then stood. "My horse hates thunder," he muttered and then stalked back to Longshanks. The horse whickered at him and he stroked his nose and soothed him, as if he needed reminding that his master was still in the area. He'd be fine now.
He stalked back to the fire and sat. The rain was pounding down outside now. "Longshanks gets nervous at thunder. He'll be fine now."
The head of the figure jerked up at that. "Longshanks? Ah. I had thought I had seen you before once, from a distance. You are the Blackfish." That voice was intriguing him now. It was low-pitched but was a little higher than before.
He peered at the figure. "I am Ser Brynden Tully."
"The Knight of the Gate." There was some admiration there. And then he had it. He was a she.
"I was. I am not now."
She tilted her head and he saw a flash of bright blue eyes. "Why not?"
He stroked his beard carefully as he thought of his answer. "I was called away. Am still called away. By something I cannot explain. I am following a pull to the Southwest." He smiled awkwardly. "That sounds foolish, I know. But it… nags at me. Especially the words from a dream."
The woman had straightened as he had been speaking and she now pulled her hood down and stared at him in what looked like some astonishment. She was not a pretty and could be described as homely at best, with short, straw-coloured hair, a wide mouth and a nose that seemed to have been broken at least twice. But her eyes… Now there was something to behold. Large and blue and with something that seemed to blaze in them. She reminded him of someone, but he could not put his finger on who.
"You… are pulled Southwest? On this road? Since when?"
"A month at least since I heard the call." He peered at her sharply. "You too?"
"Aye. T'was a dream in the night. I was travelling home from business for my Father in the Vale when I heard a whisper – and then a pull towards something that I cannot explain."
"Southwest?"
"Aye."
"Then perhaps we should travel together." He paused. "I saw two dead bandits on the road some miles back there."
She snorted. "Fools who saw a woman on a horse and did not think that I could defend myself. I corrected their mistake."
"As was right."
She eyed him again. "I will ride with you Blackfish. I am Brienne of Tarth."
"Well met Brienne of Tarth." He paused. "I have met your father, the Evenstar. A good man."
"He is. Taught me all he knew."
Brynden smiled and then nodded. "Do you want to take the first watch or the second?"
"The first."
"Then good night and wake me for the second." And then he wrapped himself in his cloak, laid his head on a saddlebag and fell asleep in an instant.
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